


giving thanks.

by katarama



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Family, Femme Trans Male Stiles Stilinski, Fluff, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Thanksgiving, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, nonbinary Scott McCall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 22:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8639914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: “You know you don’t have to dress up for Thanksgiving, right?” Stiles calls into the other room.  “It’s just your mom and my dad, and us dating doesn’t mean you have to impress my dad, because, you’ve like, got that on lock, dude.”Scott pops into the bathroom, his shirt tucked into Stiles’ skirt and Stiles’ binder in his hands.  “I know I don’t have to,” Scott says.  “I just want to look nice."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mediumrare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediumrare/gifts).



> Based on Hunter's [amazing trans Sciles art](http://draeden.tumblr.com/post/128894854834/trans-boyfriends-scott-and-stiles-stiles-is-a). Happy belated birthday, Hunter, and Happy Sciles Day!
> 
> EDIT: Hunter redrew his art [here](http://draeden.tumblr.com/post/153634043679/its-still-sciles-day-on-the-west-coast-so-i-didnt) after this fic, and it is super gorgeous and awesome.

_Plop.  Plop.  Plop._

Stiles’ body feels heavy and warm and comfortable in his bed.  He loves the feeling of waking up without an alarm, without that abrupt blaring jerking him awake, without the racing heart and the intense alertness that comes along with it.  He loves the idea that he could just roll over and go back to sleep, catch up with all those Z’s he’s missed during this semester so far.  He shifts slightly, planning on turning onto his side and drifting back off again, but when he rolls over, there’s an unpleasant, cold wetness on his pillow.

_Plop.  Plop.  Plop._

There’s something something wet on his face.  There’s the steady drip of something directly onto his cheek, pooling on his skin in a uncomfortable way.  He groans, then lifts his hand to swat whatever is dripping on him away, but he can’t feel anything but air.

_Plop.  Plop.  Pl-_

Stiles groans and finally cracks his eyes.  There’s a smile and a crooked jaw and the dots of moles.  And, of course, there’s wet, drippy hair.

“Quit dripping on me,” Stiles slurs, and he can hear Scott laugh, his voice still rough from sleep.  Even though Scott sounds like he just woke up, he doesn’t look like it; he’s wearing one of his collared shirts, a blue one that looks like it actually may have been ironed.  After a quick glance at the clock, Stiles wonders when Scott had the chance to do that, and, actually, where he even found an iron to do it with in their mess of an apartment.

“Morning,” Scott says.  He gives Stiles a quick peck on the lips, ignoring Stiles’ morning breath.  Scott’s lips feel slightly waxy, and smell of peppermint.  “It’s time to get up.”

“You’re still dripping on me,” Stiles complains sleepily.  He halfheartedly wipes his face with his hand and debates whether he can get away with acting like he’s going to wake up and then rolling back over and falling asleep when Scott leaves the room.  Scott does move his drippy head, but he doesn’t look particularly apologetic about the dripping in the first place, and Stiles weighs his odds at not being able to get away with it.

He groans again, but he finally sits up.

From this angle, he can see more of Scott, and he catches a glimpse of pink lacy underwear, one of those pairs with a cute little bow.  Stiles recognizes it as his own; he got them for days when he’s wearing his packer, but they’re roomy enough Scott loves to steal them every once in a while, for when he feels more agender or, on the rare day, more girl than he does boy.  Stiles’ brain finally starts working, taking in the underwear and the peppermint lip balm, and it starts to come together why Scott hasn’t put pants on yet.

“Which one are you looking for?” Stiles asks.  “They should mostly be clean and in the dresser, we did laundry on Monday.”

“The pink floral one isn’t there,” Scott replies sheepishly.  “I checked in the Jeep, but it wasn’t there, either.”

“I think I shoved it in the hamper, but there’s nothing spilled on it,” Stiles says.  “It just might be a little wrinkled.”

Scott follows Stiles’ tip, digging through the haphazardly balled pairs of jeans and boxers to get to the very bottom.  He finally, triumphantly pulls out a white skirt covered with smudged pink and orange floral patterns.  It’s Scott’s favorite, partly because it’s roomier and floatier, and partly because it actually has pockets.

Scott assesses the wrinkles while Stiles finally drags himself out of bed, his body complaining but giving up on the idea of sleeping any more.  Stiles brushes his teeth and washes his face and attempts to comb his hair into anything that resembles behaving, but he gives up pretty quickly and just runs his fingers through it a few times, the baby blue of his nails popping against his dark brown hair.  

“You know you don’t have to dress up for Thanksgiving, right?” Stiles calls into the other room.  “It’s just your mom and my dad, and us dating doesn’t mean you have to impress my dad, because, you’ve like, got that on lock, dude.”

Scott pops into the bathroom, his shirt tucked into Stiles’ skirt and Stiles’ binder in his hands.  Stiles shoots Scott a grateful smile as he slips his shorts and t-shirt off.  Scott disappears for another moment while Stiles puts the binder on.

“I know I don’t have to,” Scott says.  “I just want to look nice.  It’s our first Thanksgiving together as boyfriends.  My mom’s going to want a family photo, you know that.”

Stiles fluffs up his hair again, more carefully this time, because Scott is probably right on that front.  Melissa will want photos, and if they’re good, then she’ll probably get them printed on nice paper and pass them along to Stiles’ dad, because he’s every bit the sap that Melissa is when it comes to that kind of stuff.  

“If your mom wanted good photos, she shouldn’t have made Thanksgiving an all-day thing,” Stiles complains.

There’s no heat in it, though.  He doesn’t mind all-day Thanksgiving with the McCalls.  Even though it’s a reminder of how their families have shrunk over the years, Thanksgiving is actually one of his favorite holidays.  He’s excited to see his dad and Melissa, and he’s ready for delicious food and parking it on the couch with his dad to watch football until they doze off.  It’s been the Thanksgiving tradition, for as long as Stiles can remember, meeting up with the McCalls and doing brunch and dinner, the whole house smelling of food all day long.  They all help with the cooking, so it’s an amalgamation of food, honey baked ham and pierogies and beans and rice and pecan pie and turkey and green bean casserole and pumpkin flan.  They always make enough turkey for the leftovers to go into day-after enchiladas, one of the few Mexican foods that Stiles has helped make so many times he could do it in his sleep.  All of them pitch in with the clean-up, and Stiles and his dad have always spent the night, partly because Melissa and his dad always tried to be stealthy about breaking out the booze.

“Can you grab me the blue skirt with the polka dots?” Stiles calls into the other room, after a moment of thought.  “The waist is elastic, it might survive tonight.”  

Stiles hears Scott’s laughter from the other room, and there’s the click of Scott opening up the closet.  “The gray shirt, too, while you’re at it,” Stiles says.  

Scott brings him the clothes, giving him a kiss on the cheek as he hands them over.  Stiles puts them on and looks at himself in the mirror, fiddling with his hair and adjusting the shirt’s collar just a little bit before turning to let Scott see.

“Well?” he asks, “do I look worthy of our first Thanksgiving couples photo?”

The smile that spreads across Scott’s face is almost an answer in and of itself, soft and sweet and enamored in the kind of way that Stiles had seen a thousand times but never recognized for what it was until recently.

“You look perfect,” Scott says, and despite the soft teasing Stiles lobs Scott’s way for it, he can feel his cheeks heating up.

(His cheeks are just as pink in the picture of the two of them that Melissa snaps when she opens the door, and he doesn’t mind so much when he gets a framed copy in his stocking at Christmas.)

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr [here](http://sleepy-skittles.tumblr.com).


End file.
